What Was Lost

by SpikesKat

Chapter 3

Spike didn’t know how many nights he spent on the run, having paused only long enough to lose the comforter and nick some clothing from a store not far from the hotel Angel had taken him to – the morally bad behavior not making him feel guilty in the slightest. He did know that when the freight train he’d stolen aboard drew to a halt at its final destination, he was somewhere on the east coast, the salty tang of the ocean nearby tickling his overly-sensitive senses. In that time, he’d gone through the entire trash can of blood Angel had acquired, practically gorging himself on the various packets in an attempt to heal his body. 

He’d still yet to figure out his grandsire’s reason for getting the blood for him in the first place… or why Angel had willingly sliced into his own wrist and let him feed when he’d been too helpless, too out of it to rouse himself at the muted scent of life-giving sustenance. He could count on one hand the number of times his grandsire had shown such benevolence. 

But Spike had meant it when he said that it changed nothing. He still hated Angel. And the way he was feeling at the moment, with the last few days of his life on the Hellmouth playing over and over in his mind, haunting his dreams as well as his every waking hour, he likely always would. 

“Couldn’t let her get on with her life. Oh no…” he muttered as he let himself out of the stock car under the cover of darkness. “Always showing up like a bad penny.” 

Spike tripped over the train tracks and caught himself before he ended up sprawled on the ground. He was still weak, even after all the blood he’d consumed, and figured it would be weeks, perhaps even months, before he was up to full strength. Until then, he’d lay low, scope out whatever city he’d wound up in and put down some roots. 

“Sloppy seconds. That’s all I’m bloody good for. All I was ever good for. Well… no more. I’m through. Done with that lot. The Slayer included.” 

He continued to mumble to himself as he looked for a place to pass the day away and ended up bunking down with a few homeless men in one of the abandoned houses lining the street a few blocks from the train depot. 

~*~*~*~*~

For nearly a month he called a ramshackle corner office on the top floor of a condemned warehouse his home, steadily healing in both his mind and body, while at the same time trying to figure out what to do with his unlife. It was by no means the best place he’d ever laid his head, but it wasn’t the worst either. The other occupants – a motley mix of harmless demons and human alike – had long since learned to leave him alone given his mercurial temper and the monosyllabic growls in answer to any questions they might dare ask. 

If at times he felt a bit lonely, he had only to remind himself of the last time he’d tried to fit in and failed. The disappointment he’d felt being relegated to the basement after his brief stay with Harris, and the nightly discussion he’d been forced to endure, like he didn’t have preternatural senses and could hear every word the Slayer’s gang had spoken. 

“Oh, an out of control serial killer. You're right, that is a great houseguest.” 

“Wait, is he? Is he staying here?” 

Spike shoved that particular memory from his mind. The Scoobies had had a point; he’d been killing at the time. Unknowingly, but killing nonetheless. Truthfully, he’d not blamed them for the way they’d acted… much. 

Didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt any less. The soul had made him much more sensitive to their harsh words, whereas in the past he would have shrugged it off, and been ready with a quip or two of his own. 

The sun set and Spike gathered his meager belongings and left the warehouse for the last time. He was due to start work at a club located on Main Street near the beachfront and the owner had offered to let him sleep in the room over the bar during the daylight hours while the place was closed. And as a bonus, he was being paid for the time he spent there. 

“Extra security,” the man had told Spike as he’d shaken his hand and sealed the deal, knowing full well that he was hiring a vampire. The easy acceptance of his nature, of the demon that he was, had been a soothing balm to his battered spirits. Was, in fact, the reason he’d taken the position in the first place, especially since he didn’t particularly need to work. But, the job afforded him something to pass the time, rather than wallow in the past. 

Spike let himself in through the side door that opened straight into the club’s kitchens. The cook, a half-breed named Scott, looked up and smiled a greeting at his entrance, bellowed for Jackson – one of the club’s bouncers – that Spike was there. A human nearly a foot taller and seemingly twice as wide, peered his head around the corner. Spike wondered if he had any demon blood circulating in his veins given the sheer size of the man. 

“Hey, Spike!” Jackson grinned, white teeth a sharp contrast against his dark skin. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can put your things.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Spike stepped forward and followed after the human, up the stairs and through the VIP room, then through another door at the back and down a short hallway. 

Jackson opened a door at the end of the hall and gestured with his hand. “It’s not much, just a bed, dresser, small bathroom with a shower through there.” Jackson pointed to another door against the far wall. “One of the guys wired the satellite to the room. Boss has ordered a TV for you. Should be here sometime tomorrow.” 

“Right nice of him,” Spike commented as he stepped inside the sparse room and looked around. 

“That’s Mike for ya. One of the better bosses I’ve worked for. Anyway… I’ll leave you to get settled in. Uniform shirts are in the top drawer; you can wear it with your jeans. You’ve got about an hour or so before you’re on the clock. If you come down a few minutes beforehand, I’ll give you a quick tour of the place.” 

“Alright.” 

Jackson shut the door and Spike was left alone with his thoughts. He dropped his bag on the narrow bed and wandered into the bathroom. On impulse, he stripped out of his clothes and climbed inside the upright shower, washing off dirt and grime, as well as the last remnants of his old life, luxuriating in the hot water skimming down recently healed flesh. 

In just under the hour he’d been allotted, Spike was dressed in a black t-shirt – “SECURITY” emblazoned with white letters on the back – and matching jeans; black boots completed the ensemble. Barring his bleached-tipped hair, he would have easily blended in with the club’s numerous shadows. 

Jackson gave him his tour and Spike settled in for his first night of gainful employment, supervising admittance to the much-sought-after VIP room. 

As the weeks passed by and quickly turned into months, Spike found himself, if not exactly happy, then definitely content with his new life. He had a job that let him flex his muscles and at times act the Big Bad – even if he did more growling than any actual hitting – and a few friends to swap stories or play a hand or two of poker with, people that took him at face value and didn’t judge him based on whether or not he bore a soul. 

If, at times, he felt bereft when the club closed and everyone went their separate ways, home to their respective wives, girlfriends, or significant others, he buried it deep with the help of a bottle of top shelf whiskey and several hundred channels worth of television. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Buffy looked up, her expression hopeful, as Angel let himself in the front door and walked down the few short steps into the hotel lobby. A slight negative shake of his head, and her face fell and she had to blink back the tears she could already feel forming. 

“We’ll keep looking, Buffy.”

“But... it’s been months.” 

“I know,” Angel snapped back, in a rare show of temper. “I’m trying. Giles is trying.” 

“I’m sorry.” Buffy laid a hand on his arm in a gesture of apology. “I just… I miss him, Angel.” 

The “I know” when it came this time was a lot more understanding, the sigh heartfelt. For months now, the combined resources of Wolfram & Hart and the newly formed Council had been unable to find Spike. Every possible lead relating to vigilantism, demon hunting, or other type of good deed all over the globe had been tracked down and been nothing but dead ends. 

If Spike was still alive, he was doing a good job of hiding his whereabouts. 

Angel had to believe he was; the telltale loss he’d felt when Spike had gone up in flames defeating the First had yet to happen again. No, Spike was still alive… or undead, as the case may be; he just didn’t want to be found. 

He moved away, leaving Buffy to her own thoughts, heading for the stairs and the privacy of his room. Spike’s behavior uppermost in his mind. 

It had been several weeks before Angel had broken down and told the others about Spike’s return. The news had been met with confusion, hurt, and even anger on the Slayer’s part. Anger at both himself and Spike, him for waiting so long to tell her, and Spike because he’d run away and not wanted to let anyone know of his return. 

Angel had no answers for Spike’s behavior, other than the obvious. But Buffy was adamant that the two had mended fences, that their final night together had nixed the idea of any lingering jealousy on Spike’s parts. At least, that was the way Buffy figured it. He didn’t think that was the case, however, especially given Spike’s remarks in the wake of Angel having fed him. 

It was clear that Spike was harboring pain of his own, and Angel could only imagine the horrors he’d endured after he’d dusted – his own time in a hell dimension notwithstanding. Regret was like an albatross around his neck. He couldn’t rightly say why he’d done what he had that final trip to Sunnydale; he and Buffy had clearly been over for some time. 

Sighing, Angel let himself into his room and shut the door. He needed a shower and some sleep, not necessarily in that order. He been exhausting himself trying to find Spike for Buffy, hating the look in her eyes each morning he’d come home and have to tell her no, he’d not found him. 

Just once, he’d like to be able to get something right. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Needing some time alone to grieve Anya’s death, Xander had finally taken the road trip he’d always wanted to. Which was why he found himself standing outside The Rave, a nightclub on Main Street, eyeing the help wanted sign in the window. 

For months he’d traveled from city to city, trying to come to terms with the mistakes he’d made with his life. It hadn’t been easy, and more often than not, he’d sought the aid of a bottle or two, barely refrained from seeking something a little stronger. He’d hit rock bottom in a small city outside Houston, puking his guts out in the back seat of his car and scaring the locals. It was the quiet understanding of an elderly waitress, a woman who reminded him a lot of Joyce, who gave him the proverbial kick in the pants and got him to clean up his act and exorcise his ghosts. 

He’d spent another week in the small town of Liberty, Texas, repaying Evelyn for her kindness by putting his carpentry skills to good use. It felt good working with wood again, a first since he’d lost his eye. Once he deemed himself ready to go home, he was going to settle down and find a job in the construction business. For now, though, he was enjoying his trek across the country, finding the odd job to keep gas in his car, food in his belly, and a roof over his head. 

Xander tried the door and found it unlocked. He’d taken no more than a handful of steps inside when a voice called out, “we don’t open for another hour.” 

“Uh… I’m here about the job. Sign in the window says you’re hiring.” 

“Got any experience?” 

“I worked in a club one summer, bussing tables. What is it, uh… exactly, that you’re looking for?” 

“How are you at mixing drinks?” 

“Been awhile, but I’m familiar with the mainstream stuff, and I can pop the top of a beer with the best of them,” Xander joked. 

“How soon can you start? I’ve got a guy out for a few months, broke his hand, so the job’s only temporary.” 

“Sounds even better. I’m not looking for anything permanent.” 

“Drifter, huh?” 

“Sorta. More like seeing the sights.” 

“All right then. I’ll give you a shot. Be back here at eight. Things start to heat up about ten. Here… catch.” 

Xander caught the t-shirt flung his way. 

“What’s your name, kid?” 

“Uh… Alex. Alex Harris.” 

“I’m Mike. Come in through the kitchen; I’ll let Scott know to expect you.” 

“Yeah… okay. Thanks… for the job.” 

Xander waved goodbye and let himself out, a slight smile on his lips.

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